This Was a Real Nice Clambake

 

 

Hello,

 I dug for clams once, my first and only time, so why in the world am I naming my memoir THIS WAS A REAL NICE CLAMBAKE?

 Because once I wrote of it, I had Rodgers and Hammerstein's lyrics from Carousel (1958) stuck in my head until I gave it as the title.

  "This was a real nice clam bake

We're mighty glad we came

 The vittles we et

 We're good; you bet

 The company was the same

 Our hearts are warm, our bellies are full

 And we are feeling prime

 This was a really nice clambake

 And we all had a real good time."

 

--Public domain: "Published in the United States between 1928 and 1977, inclusive, without a copyright notice."

There are strict rules about using song lyrics, but to my surprise, this song came up public domain. So, I'm printing the lyrics because they pretty much sum up my life. And after being around the college performance of Carousel, in which my husband sang, those words were right on top of my brain.

 I wrote this memoir while drunk. Maybe that explains that while in an altered state, anything can come up. And you know about the brain, it zigzags all over the place, one thing leads to another and sometimes you go, “Huh? Where did that come from?” However, I was not drunk on alcohol or any other mood-altering substances. I was drunk with inspiration. 

 It's Natalie Goldberg's fault. 

 It began as a memoir, but no longer is. However is was inspired by Old Friends from Far Away, by Natalie Goldberg who wrote, that a memoir doesn't have to be an old person's story; I was born in, went to school… Boring. It's for those moments that take our breath away--like on that hot day, you stopped the car by a creek, stripped off your pantyhose, waded into the stream fresh off an ice flow, and felt alive. (Guys, take off your socks, and who wears pantyhose anymore?)

I keep talking about my present writing experience for it changes daily, and has been my focus of attention for a  a couple of months now. Before those last two months, I hadn’t planned on writing a memoir—I didn’t want anyone adding up the years, and didn't want it to be all about me. finally,  I threw discretion to the wind and felt it was something I had to do.

 

I think everyone ought to write one, to take stock of one’s life and decide what you want to keep and what you want to throw away.

 

It can even be like “Morning Pages,” where you write out all the crap, gripe on paper, then stop telling the same old sad story over and over. For you know the saying, “Neurons that fire together wire together,” meaning you will fix them in your brain.

 

Free up your brain to be ready for the next adventure.

 

Ta Da!

 

Live long, be happy,

 

 "The curiosity and connection that create the Eureka effect rely on parts of the brain that don't feel fear."—Martha Beck.

 

Really?

 

I thought fear was all-pervasive. Yet, as I think about it, fear comes from our primitive brain stem, the part that's into survival.

 

Martha is right; it doesn't come from the creative side. 

 

That must be why we feel happy when we are into some creative endeavor or when faced with a problem whose solution has stumped us, if we let it sit a while, Eureka, "Out of the blue," comes the answer.

 

I know, however, that while the right side of our brains is creative, and it's so much fun to be in that space, I did not know it was fearless. The other side must creep in.

 

I've been hearing more and more that scientists are trying to pinpoint where consciousness lies and, so far, haven't been able to do it. They are pretty sure it doesn't reside in the brain as we have been led to believe. 

 

Don't we think with our brains? Doesn't it feel like it is coming from our heads? Yes, but what about those moments of transcendence where something comes to us from out of that blue space?

 

The first time l experienced an out-of-the-blue thought where I got the message that we can KNOW as a teenager.

 

This is silly, a trivial little thing, but it impacted me.

 

I had taken a knit dress to the cleaners, and when I picked it up, it was wrapped in brown paper like a package. I absolutely knew the belt wasn't in that package. But I didn't want to tell them, thus committing to such boldness, so I went to the car, opened the package, verified that the belt wasn't there, returned to the shop, and told them the belt was missing. They found it and gave it to me.

 

I have mentioned I am writing a memoir. This memoir could also fit into the Memoir/autobiography/travel/adventure/special interest categories. Every time I say I'm writing a memoir, I sound arrogant. Then I remind myself I do not know anyone better than I know myself.

 

Perhaps people will want to read it; perhaps they won't. Perhaps it will inspire others to write their memoir; maybe it won't. Either way, come hell or high water, I'm doing it. I mentioned I wrote 50,000 words in 30 days, but that doesn't mean it is complete; it just means I got words on the page, and now I am faced with a mess. 

 

Natalie Goldberg (Old Friend from Far Away), my inspiration, says you can write many memoirs in your life; every time you write one, you will be at a different place. And don't write about dreary stuff; you can write about pain, for that's a part of life, but generally, write about what takes your breath away.

 

Yesterday I was writing about Spankings, and I made this statement: 

 

"I don't know why it is embarrassing to be spanked like it is embarrassing to be bullied, molested, or unloved."

 

The moment I wrote the above sentence, I got the answer. 

 

When Joseph McClendon III talked about sleeping in a box in Lancaster, California, after somebody tried to kill him because of the color of his skin, he thought, "If someone would do that to me, there must be something wrong with me."

 

That's it. 

 

As McClendon erroneously thought there was something wrong with him, kids probably think there is something wrong with them and that they deserve punishment.

 

There was nothing wrong with McClendon, as there is nothing wrong with kids who get hit for some infraction. They are kids, remember?

 

I wonder how much punishment contributes to our culture's prevailing "I'm not good enough" syndrome. I'm not good enough to be loved. I'm not good enough to find a mate. I'm not good enough to write a good book, a play, a symphony, paint a picture or start a business. 

 

"I've been bad and deserve to be hit. I am a girl, a less desirable weaker sex, and I must keep my mouth shut. Boys will be boys, you know." 

 

Auugh.

 

That's the biggest Bullshit I have ever heard. 

 

I told you I was a Badass in training.

 

I will ask for pre-sales for the book PAINTING A LIFE from a Badass in Training by Jewell D. That way, I can hit the ground running when the book is launched. Getting sales right away is the best way to get a higher rating on Google.

 

"Obi-Wan, I need your help."

 

You can tell me you're willing to join my pre-sales campaign if you want to. Pre-sales are only charged once a book is launched.

 

So, nobody will be charged if it never gets off the launching pad.

 

Over and out, have fun, be creative, do a little dance.

 

Write Drunk Edit Sober

I think I used that title before. However, I'm using it again. My site told me it only takes 2 minutes, 48 seconds to read this post. My kind of read. Read it and get on with it.

I wrote drunk, now I am editing sober. 

 I was not drunk with alcohol or any other mood-altering substances. I was drunk with inspiration. 

Write when you are drunk with the pleasure of living. Write when you are drunk with words bursting to land on a page. Write when the Muse visits—if you don't, you ought to be smacked.

When you come in for a landing, edit. That's being sober. 

 (Even if a writing class teacher swore to you this "Write drunk, edit sober" advice came straight from the mouth of Ernest Hemingway it is actually a quote from a fictional character. Mariel Hemingway, Ernest's granddaughter, said the author wrote and edited sober.) 

Since Hemingway had a reputation for drinking a lot, he had to write drunk, right? Actually, he didn't. He wrote first, then celebrated.

I was drunk with reaching my goal of 50,000 words in my memoir. In editing, they went down to 48,000 and up to 53,000; I had some repeats, and now I'm at 50,323. If you are a writer, you know about first drafts—don't let anyone see them. 

I wondered and felt insulted that a writing process called NaNoWriMo encouraged writers to write a novel in a month. They don't mention the time to rewrite.

Somewhere I read that Margaret Mitchel spent 30 years on Gone with the Wind, but online it says she spent only 3. It's hard to know what to believe anymore. They did practically have to rip that manuscript out of her hands to get it published, though, as she kept it hidden under a blanket when people visited. She wrote the last chapter first and rearranged the chapters, and it went on to sell 30 million copies. 

Now, though, after my exercise, I see the value of keeping the hands moving. Don't look at the words; that way, you are more into feeling than thinking. You will end up with a mess but words on a page.

 Okay, now you are sober. Edit the damn thing.

As time passes in this writing endeavor, I remember little past things like V-Mail. For years I had a letter from my father when he was in the war. But after repeated searches, I believe it went with our wedding pictures when we were packing to move to Hawaii. You know how it can be; you put things away for safekeeping, and they are the ones that get lost. We sold some things to a man who agreed to sell them on eBay, and some of my best things disappeared. Unfortunately, I was not on top of the process. 

V-mail is short for Victory-mail, and few know of it now. During the war, yes, WWII, since mail was stacking up with letters from soldiers to home and from home to soldiers, someone came up with a brilliant plan. 

The sender would write their letter on a specified sheet of paper—it would only hold so many words. A reader would check for secrets and black them out if need be, and the letters would be on their way.

 The plan was OO7 inspired.

 It was microfilmed and sent by airmail.

 Microfilmed—yep, in WWII. When the mail arrived in the US, it came as a photographed letter, about 4 or 5 inches. The writer needed to print large enough, so the words would be readable on the other end.

With this method, they saved much-needed room in the airplane. Contrast microfilm to bags upon bags of mail. Online it says they don't think they ever lost a letter using that method.

 Over the years, I repeatedly read my two little letters from my dad. One was from Italy, "You thought I would only be gone for a while, didn't you?" He had beautiful printing and drew bunnies along the bottom of the page. And he called me Princess, although I never knew he called me that. 

 I only saw my father once after the war, but then 38 years later, I met him again.

 

 

In lieu of my beautiful letter.